“Yes. That tall man? He has let his beard grow since.” “That is he. Let us go to the room where the drawings are: we shall have a better chance of a seat there. I have not seen Sholto for two years; and our last meeting was rather a stormy one.” “What happened?” Marian was a little hurt by being questioned. She missed the reticence of a gentleman. Then she reproached herself for not understanding that his frank curiosity was a delicate appeal to her confidence in him, and answered: “He proposed to me.” Conolly immediately dropped the subject, and went in search of a vacant seat. They found one in the little room where the architects’ drawings languish. They were silent for some time. Then he began, seriously: “Is it too soon to call you by your own name? ‘Miss Lind’ is distant; but ‘Marian’ might shock you if it came too confidently without preparation.” “Whichever you please.” “Whichever I please!” “That is the worst of being a woman. Little speeches that are sheer coquetry when you analyze them, come to our lips and escape even when we are most anxious to be straightforward.” “In the same way,” said Conolly, “the most enlightened men often express themselves in a purely conventional manner on subjects on which they have the deepest convictions.” This sententious utterance had the effect of extinguishing the conversation for some moments, Marian being unable to think of a worthy rejoinder. At last she said: “What is your name?” “Edward, or, familiarly, Ned. Commonly Ted. In America, Ed. With, of course, the diminutives Neddy, Teddy, and Eddy.” “I think I should prefer Ned.” “I prefer Ned myself.” “Have you any other name?” “Yes; but it is a secret. Why people should be plagued with two Christian names, I do not know. No one would have believed in the motor if they had known that my name was Sebastian.” “Sebastian!” “Hush. I was actually christened Edoardo Sebastiano Conolly. My father used to spell his name Conollj whilst he was out of Italy. I have frustrated the bounty of my godfathers by suppressing all but the sensible Edward Conolly.” There was a pause. Then Marian spoke. “Do you intend to make our—our engagement known at once?” “I have considered the point; and as you are the person likely to be inconvenienced by its publication, I am bound to let you conceal it for the present, if you wish to. It must transpire sometime: the sooner the better. You will feel uncomfortably deceitful with such a secret; and as for me, every time your father greets me cordially in the City I shall feel mean. However, you can watch for your opportunity. Let me know at once when the cat comes out of the bag.” “I will. I think, as you say, the right course is to tell at once.” “Undoubtedly. But from the moment you do so until we are married you will be worried by remonstrances, entreaties, threats, and what not; so that we cannot possibly make that interval too short.”